Dennis Haighton's story

My name is Abbie Thompson, I am 22 years old and I live in Carrickfergus, Northern Ireland. I was only five when my granda, Dennis Haighton, died from pancreatic cancer, but his story has been told to me so many times by my granny and family that I feel as though I lived it alongside them.

Even now, so many years later, his strength and his suffering stay with me. I want to share what happened to him in the hope that it helps others recognise the signs of pancreatic cancer and pushes for earlier diagnosis.

Dennis grew up in Belfast and later moved to Carrickfergus in the early 1990s. He was a proud member of the Gertrude Star Flute Band and was well known in the community. He also worked as a civil servant for the PSNI, a role he carried out with pride. More than anything though, he was a family man. He and my granny had five children together, but he had seven in total, and today there are many grandchildren, with twelve born since his passing. He was only 56 when the first symptoms appeared.

In January 2007, he began to experience severe stomach pain. It was so intense that he would end up sitting on the ground, unable to cope with it. At the same time, he noticed that he was losing weight. He became so concerned that before going to see his doctor he began weighing himself every week, keeping track of what was happening. My granda was certain that something was very wrong. At his first GP appointment he told the doctor directly, “I have cancer.” Unfortunately, he was not believed. The doctor told him that pain and weight loss did not necessarily mean cancer and sent him for an ultrasound, but nothing was found.

The pain continued and painkillers did little to help. My granda returned to the GP repeatedly, still convinced that he was right. Eventually he was referred to a consultant at Whiteabbey Hospital. They carried out what was described as a full MOT of his body, including more scans, a CT, and biopsies. Even then, the process was painfully slow. He waited a month and a half for results, and by that time, seven and a half months had passed since his very first appointment. During this whole time he was in constant pain, losing weight, and still without any answers.

When the diagnosis finally came, it was pancreatic cancer. By then it was too advanced for surgery, the only potential cure. My granny was told privately that he may only have around a month left. My granda did not want to hear about time-frames or statistics, but he did want treatment. He was admitted to hospital and given a round of chemotherapy. My granny remembers how remarkable the change was. For the first time in months, he was free of pain and felt well. He was able to enjoy life again, even if only for a short while. A second round of chemotherapy followed two months later and again it gave him relief. Sadly, after that the doctors would not give him anymore.